A Backdrop of Stars
by Shan Jeniah
Summary: Two grieving accidental parents return from leave on Vulcan - but something has changed between them, and Jonathan Archer isn't sure he likes the implications...Angsty,and will get much darker than it began...first three chapters are currently undergoing revision from their original unpolished form! Will begin as T, but evolve to M; I'll change the rating when we get to that point.
1. A Backdrop of Stars

**Glimmer in the Shadows**

The door of the Captain's Mess whooshed open, and Jon turned from his place by the window. T'Pol, looking fragile in her layered robes, stepped over the threshold – and stopped. Shadows thrown by the candles he'd arranged in strategic locations emphasized her cheekbones, and painted hollows around her unreadable eyes.

"Come on in," Jon suggested, very gently.

"I think she needs a minute." Trip stepped in, moving to the left of the Vulcan woman. Grief had carved new lines at his eyes and mouth, too. His boyish exuberance had somehow managed to recover from the ravages of the Expanse, but his quick and playful smile seemed to have stayed on leave even though the two of them were finally back.

"Take all the time you need, both of you." Jon tried to figure out if they looked any better now than they had at the memorial five weeks ago. If they did, it wasn't by much.

"Thanks, Cap'n. For everything, from both of us." Trip gestured around with one hand; the candles made flickering shadow puppets.

T'Pol didn't didn't even blink. He hadn't seen her look so implacably Vulcan since the earliest days of their first mission. But he knew her a lot better now than he had then. She didn't have to show her grief and pain outright for Jon to see it as plain as he could Trip's. It was probably a good thing that they'd come back with ten days' leave time left. Trip was adaptable; Jon didn't worry that he'd bounce back in time. But T'Pol – emotion might never be something she could deal with easily, after the Expanse.

Trip leaned down to her, murmuring quietly. He didn't seem concerned by her lack of reaction. She gave the barest suggestion of a nod, and Trip offered her his arm. She placed her hand just beneath the crook of his elbow, and Jon saw something gleam in the candlelight as the engineer glided her to the table. Trip seemed dignified and older than he'd been even two months ago, and he was in full Southern gentleman mode, pulling out her chair and easing her into it. T'Pol looked like she was on autopilot, or as though none of this mattered, and, without Trip's urging, she might have stood there in the doorway for the rest of the night.

"I'll be right beside you," Trip said, softly. But, before he could step away, she grabbed his arm. Trip grunted, and put his hand over hers. "Hey, I'm not going anywhere. This kind of hurts. Can you let go?" T'Pol didn't release him, but Trip stayed calm. "I'll need my arm to move my chair closer." If she appreciated his logic, she didn't give any sign of it; she just kept hanging on as though she didn't know how to let go.

The two of them were at an impasse. This was a job for _Enterprise's_ captain.

"I'll move your chair, Trip."

"Better put it close." Trip didn't look away from her. There was something grim and pained in his voice. "She's - " He winced; it didn't seem to have any effect on T'Pol's Vulcan death grip.

Jon hustled to slide Trip's usual chair so that it almost touched T'Pol's. Trip caught it with his leg, and moved it right up against hers. He was still watching her, and she still had hold of his arm like she was never going to let go.

Trip murmured again, acting like this was all perfectly normal. Jon couldn't hear what he said, but it must be working, because T'Pol relaxed a little.

Trip kept on with the soft words – was that Vulcan? T'Pol was shaking, the way she had after Azati Prime. Was she using trellium again? Is that why Trip was treating her like she might come apart if he talked too loud or moved too fast? He wasn't going to ask ; it would be cruel to remind T'Pol of her fallibility at a time like this. If trellium helped her through, maybe it was worth the cost, for now.

But, whether she was or not, Trip still needed his arm back, and in working order. "Everything okay, Commanders?"

"As okay as it gets, right now." Trip didn't shift his focus from the woman, and his voice was tight. "Vulcans don't deal with grief the way humans do." Jon waited, but Trip didn't explain. T'Pol was still silent, but she finally let go, her hand slipping shakily out from under Trip's, and there was another glimmer and a quick flash of color as she pulled it back into her wide sleeve. Jewelry? He'd never seen her wear any, beside her insignia. Must just be a trick of light on the embroidery on the wide cuffs of her robe.

Trip sat down without moving his chair, and Jon's First Officer sighed softly and leaned in against his Chief Engineer, her back half-turned into Trip's solid body. He wrapped the arm he'd broken around her, and T'Pol came the rest of the way into the embrace, nestling her head against Trip's chest, just beneath his chin. Jon could only see the top of her head, and one sculpted ear.

It reminded him of the shuttlepod journey back to Enterprise from Mars. Trip didn't even let Phlox treat that arm; he was stuck to the baby and her mother as though there was no pain that could get in the way of his newly discovered paternal duties.

 _When the_ _ir daughter_ _cried, T'Pol_ _s_ _a_ _ng_ _a lullaby_ _in a clear and beautiful voice that filled the little cabin._ _Trip_ _brushed his_ _lips over_ _her_ _hair_.

Just the way he was doing now.

Something about the intimacy of it had bothered him then. They'd still thought the baby was fine, and they'd looked like a family. It had jolted Jon into the realization that he might lose them both. They couldn't raise a baby on a starship, after all. Neither of them looked willing to give up that little girl with the blue eyes and pointed ears - not without a hell of a fight. Now that they had her, they were going to _keep_ her.

They'd named their daughter Elizabeth, after Trip's sister. Only after little Elizabeth died did Jon learn that her middle name was T'Les, in honor of T'Pol's mother.

Elizabeth T'Les Tucker had been created to separate species, but she had brought her human father and Vulcan mother together in shared grief. The baby bound them together, in life _and_ death. Jon had been glad they had each other. Together, maybe they could make some sense of the existence – and tragic death of - a baby who had been forced on them, and then taken from them, all in the space of three days.

But that was five weeks ago. They weren't a family now; not anymore. Not without the baby.

So why was T'Pol clinging wordlessly to Trip's arm like she couldn't make herself let go of him, and why was he he holding her in his arms like she belonged there, stroking her back in a slow, steady rhythm, and murmuring soft calming words?

There was a soft, choked-back little sob, and T'Pol looked like she'd burrow straight into Trip's chest. The engineer didn't seem surprised at all. He just held her, whispered into her ear, and stroked her back. It was tender and sweet, and it seemed to be just what T'Pol needed right now. Maybe Trip, too - he was always at his best when there was someone to take care of.

Apparently, even if that someone was T'Pol.

Belatedly, Jon realized he was staring. Thankfully, they were apparently both oblivious to the fact, but if T'Pol knew he'd seen her like this, it might make things worse for her, and that was the last thing Jon wanted to do.

But he couldn't just sit here like there was nothing happening, either, so he got up as quietly as he could. Neither Trip nor T'Pol seemed to notice.

Andoria floated peacefully below them. Jon took five steps to the planetside window. He told himself he was admiring the blue and white marble, and not sneaking peeks at his two best friends in the blurred multiple reflections the candlelight cast on the plasteel.

T'Pol tipped her head back, her still-wet eyes glistening.

She was watching Trip.

Jon stopped lying to himself, and shifted carefully until he had a clearer view. Those dark eyes were lovely, and, even in the softened view, eloquent with unspoken emotion.

Trip's eyes were focused on hers, and they glowed with _something_ Jon wasn't ready to even try to decipher. He nodded as if T'Pol had spoken, and the hint of a sad smile teased his dimple without actually breaking free.

Jon wondered if either of them had any idea at all what this looked like.

T'Pol raised her arm, slowly, while Trip watched her. Her sleeve fell back, and there was something bright and colorful on her hand as it splayed across Trip's face. Jon felt their mutual sigh shiver through him, but all he could focus on right now was T'Pol's hand….

Her _left_ hand.

And on the fourth finger, adorned with a small emerald and gold ring that glimmered against a backdrop of stars like a secret revealed.


	2. Clinging to One Another

_**Full Author's Notes in Chapter One, "A Backdrop of Stars"**_

 _ **This story is rated T for suggestions of adult themes and a mention of addiction.**_

 _ **It takes place shortly after the events of "Demons" and "Terra Prime", exploring what happened after Elizabeth's death. I've attempted to make a logical progression from canon, and not enough time has elapsed to have to think about the abomination that was "TATV".**_

 _ **There will eventually be much more to this story, and, from a "TATV"- as - truth POV, it will become AU, somewhere along the way. If one ignores that episode, it could be considered canon.**_

 _ **Trip and T'Pol have just returned from five weeks' bereavement leave. Jon more or less pressured them to join him for dinner in the Captain's Mess. But his second and third in command seem to be much more comfortable with each other than he expected them to be, and T'Pol is wearing a ring...**_

 _ **This chapter revised on June 4, 2016, to correct some rather glaring errors.**_

 _ **As always, I love reader feedback. While it's lovely to read glowing reviews, I learn a lot from the not-so-enthusiastic. So long as you're respectful, please don't hold back on the criticism! =)**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

 _ **Clinging to One Another**_

Jon stared at T'Pol's hand on Trip's face. The _claddagh_ ring glimmered in the reflection, even distorted by the light and the stars. Distorted, like T'Pol letting Trip hold her, like the two of them sitting in the Captain's Mess mindmelding like it was a perfectly normal thing for them to be doing.

Maybe he should just pretend it was normal, too.

But there was that ring, and T'Pol's fingers lightly pressed against Trip's very human face.

His arm snuggling her in so close to him that she was damned near sitting on his lap.

By twisting and turning a bit, he could get more of the picture, and his imagination filled in the rest.

T'Pol's eyes fixed on Trip's. Her lips slightly parted.

His looking sleepy and dazed and glinting impossibly blue.

Everything between them since they'd gotten here was –

Jon searched for a word while he watched, and came up with one that fit.

 _I_ _ncriminating_.

They looked less like grieving accidental parents, and a hell of a lot more like lovers clinging to one another in the midst of a sudden devastating emotional storm.

 _Were_ they lovers?

If so, for how long?

Long enough to have conceived a baby little Elizabeth's age?

How long had they been fooling around with each other, right under his nose?

"Sir?" came the tentative query from the brand-new steward.

Jon whirled around. He'd forgotten that she was there, but he couldn't stop staring at his second and third in command. They were even more lost in each other from this angle, and didn't seem to have any idea at all that they weren't alone. Is _this_ what they did, while they were on leave to mourn their child? How much _more_ than this did they do?

"Should I come back?" It wasn't likely that the young woman could see what was going on at the table, or maybe even who was sitting there, but she had a perfectly clear view of Jon's face. He pulled his focus from them, and realized he hadn't answered her yet.

"Yes, please, Crewman -?" Damn them for making him forget a crewmember's name, no matter how new or how low on the roster she was.

"Smith, sir."

"I'll call you when we're ready, Crewman. Dismissed."

She backed out, pretending with little success that she wasn't almost desperate to know what was happening in the Captain's Mess, with the Big Three, as some of the junior staff called them when they didn't know keen Vulcan ears could hear and would report back.

He looked back at them, at the one Vulcan ear that was visible, its delicate grace still exotic and provocative, even after four years. He'd fantasized about ways to get her to let him touch those ears...

But now she sat there with Trip, her mind intertwined with his, in physical proximity that seemed like it was taken for granted by both of them. Like they'd done it a lot. When?

Only while they were away on leave? Or longer? What about those sessions while they were in the Expanse? Jon couldn't remember what they were called; but he'd been told they were private and intimate.

Is _this_ what they'd been doing?

He thought of Erica, and wondered if they'd been _climbing any mountains._

Or maybe Vulcans had their own version of the climber's code. There was that codicil on T'Pol's commission that said no one could ask her about any part of her reproductive or pairbonding life without her express permission, unless it was directly related to her duty.

And they were on leave for another ten days.

What the hell would they be doing, _on his ship_ , _together,_ for those ten days?

He watched for a while, wondering when, or maybe if, they were going to come up for air. Not as much as he wondered what the hell was going on in that meld. Jon's time with Surak in his head suggested that Vulcans used mindmelds for a hell of a lot more than just a transfer of information. He'd gotten a taste or two of melds between Surak and T'Prana, his wife. It had left him with an odd longing, and he'd been waiting for a good time to suggest to T'Pol that maybe she could try a meld with him, now that she'd gotten past her initial doubts.

But that was before they'd found out what Paxton had done, and everything had shifted to getting their baby home, and making sure all Earth's human inhabitants and alien visitors were safe from the zealot's xenophobic pogrom.

They'd had almost a day with the baby on Enterprise, before she got sick enough to need to be isolated in Sickbay. T'Pol had had longer, while they were being held in Paxton's mining colony. Time enough, it seemed, to love what the madman had created from their stolen genetic material.

And then the baby died, and Trip and T'Pol, were plunged into grief, and requested immediate and extended bereavement leave. Jon hadn't been able to tell either of them they couldn't take it, not after he'd seen them at the memorial. Even if he had, Starfleet was taking guidance from Ambassador Soval on this sensitive matter. Soval declared Elizabeth T'Les Tucker a Vulcan citizen, with all the rights and privileges accorded any other citizen – and that apparently included extended leave time for the family grieving her.

But what the hell had they been _doing_ during that time?

Jon didn't want to think about that, and he couldn't stop thinking about it.

This had gone on long enough, and then some. He cleared his throat, and, when that had no affect, said, "Commanders."

No response at all. They just sat there, immobile, staring into one another's eyes, which were still dripping slow tears that caught the light.

So did that ring. A _claddagh_ ring. An _Earth_ ring, on her Vulcan finger whose tip was gently and intimately pressed against Trip's temple.

Jon felt something building in him as he stared at that ring and his two unmoving best friends. He remembered again that Trip had been immune to the Orion women. Had they been melding in the conference room, right after the women were removed from the ship, and Phlox started inoculating everyone else?

His memories of those first hours were vague and dreamlike. He'd had too much Andorian ale, and way too much Navaar to get her or her pheromones out of his head fast. He thought he remembered Trip making him sign something, but not what, and T'Pol in a stunning dress that showed more of her body than Jon wanted any other man aboard to see, and not nearly as much of it as _he_ wanted to.

But now, that ring glittered in the silent room. It said something.

And Jon didn't need to hear exactly what that was to know that he didn't like it, not one damned bit.

"Commanders." He used a command tone, this time, one that ought to have gotten their attention even if they were sound asleep.

No response at all. Not even a blink, from either of them. It even seemed like they were breathing together, soft and slow.

Like lovers who'd _been_ lovers long enough to be fully in tune with one another.

Jon waited, watching the ring glitter in the light, watching the sheen of hazel and blue eyes as they remained locked together. Watching T'Pol's hand on Trip's face.

The need to know burst out of him before he could stop it.

"What the _hell_ is that ring doing on your hand, T'Pol?!"

Two harsh intakes of breath that sounded uncomfortably like cries of pain. T'Pol's hand clenched on Trip's face, and his arm gripped her just as hard as she went pale, her eyes huge as she stared. Trip glared as he held her, but there were stress lines around his eyes and a pulsing vein beneath her fingers.

He wasn't going to let himself pity them, if this was what he thought it was. "Well? I'm waiting from an answer."

"You're being an ass." Trip's eyes were glittering along with the ring, and he put his free hand over T'Pol's, obscuring the object of Jon's anger. "You all right?" His voice went low, gentle. Is that what he sounded like, when he was in bed with her?

Jon wasn't about to let him play sensitive tough guy hero for her. Trip already had all the cards, with that damned genetic link, and that inexplicable shared immunity to Orion pheromones. And five weeks of leave time, doing things Jon had no proof of, but a damned good suspicion about.

"I wasn't talking to _you_. I'm talking to _T'Pol._ " He ignored Trip, even though he was still right there, still under her fingers, still embracing her. He looked at her and only her. She stared back at him, her eyes huge and green-rimmed in a pinched and suddenly gaunt face. "I want an _answer_ , T'Pol, and I want it _now_."

What the hell was he doing? How was _this_ going to help him get closer to her, or get the damned charming engineer out of this picture?

"Trip gave it to me," she said, her voice barely a whisper. Trip was stroking the backs of her fingers, slowly and softly. They were still on his face; Jon was tempted to call them to attention, but he knew that would be going too far.

Answers. He wanted answers. And he was going to get them.

"Why? I've never seen you wear jewelry before."

But T'Pol just stared at him for another few seconds, and fresh tears welled up and spilled out over her cheeks. Jon wondered what he was doing; interrogating her wasn't the way to get closer to her, but he needed answers he wasn't getting, to questions he wasn't allowed to ask her. In a sudden motion, she slipped into Trip's lap, burying her face in the folds of his robes, hiding from Jon against the engineer's chest.

He'd pushed in the wrong direction. And not only was T'Pol clearly not going to say anything else, now Trip put his other arm around her, too, and started to rock her very slowly. But his eyes were ice hard as he stared at Jon.

"It's none of _your_ damned business, Jon. But, since you're not going to let it go, I'll tell you _exactly_ why I gave it to T'Pol. I made this ring for my baby sister Lizzie when she got her degree. She'd always wanted one, but _claddaghs_ have to come from someone who cares about you. I tricked her into drawing what she wanted, and spent about three months working out the details between shifts."

His voice cracked, and he sniffed loudly. T'Pol's hand, wearing the ring Trip had apparently made with his own, crept up to his shoulder, but she didn't come out of hiding. Soft sniffling sounds said why, and Jon wished he could take back the way he'd barked at her.

Trip swiped his eyes, then put his arm right back around the beautiful Vulcan on his lap, and went on.

"Lizzie lost the ring a week or two before – before she was killed. She told our mom, but not me – she didn't want to disappoint me. I found it in a flowerpot last time I visited my folks; Mom and Lizzie were going to put those flowers in windowboxes, but they never got the chance."

"And you gave it to _T'Pol_? Why the _hell_ did you do _that_ , Trip? What does this _mean_?"

"It _means_ she named our baby girl _Elizabeth_ , for _me_ , and I wanted to say thank you. I wanted to give my child's mother something that reminds her of _our daughter._ What she means to me, and always will. To let her know _I_ know Elizabeth will always mean something to _her_ , too, even when she can't quite say so. I wanted to make even a tiny bit of this damned pain go away." Trip sheltered the Vulcan woman in his arms, and his lips brushed over her hair again. He stared straight into Jon's eyes while he did it, daring him to say a word.

Jon wanted to belt him for that. But then T'Pol sobbed – not a near-silent Vulcan cry, but a wrenching, broken expression of deep grief.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" Trip's voice was a growl as he stared Jon down. "Can't you see that all this is already tearing her apart? Can't you see she's on the edge of emotional and physical _collapse_? That she doesn't handle grief the way we do, and she can't handle it the way _Vulcans_ do anymore, either? That she's lost, and needs a safe place to start to heal? That as her Cap'n and her _friend_ , you're way, _way_ outta line here?" It was soft, almost gentle, but there was a hissing quality to it that said that Trip was furious, and holding it back out of deference to the woman huddled into his lap, crying in a way maybe no other Vulcan ever had.

Feeling like as much of an ass as Trip thought he was didn't help Jon's temper. "What the hell makes you think _you're_ the best one to give her that safe place, Trip? Or that you're the one she _wants_ to do it?"

"Didn't see her grab _your_ arm, or climb into _your_ lap, sir." Those lips caressed her hair again, and he went back to that slow rocking motion. "And I _am_ her baby's father, just the same as she's _my_ baby's mother, whether we intended it or not. That's something we've got in common; something no one else can understand."

" _Did_ you intend to have a child? Did you – _are you_ – fraternizing, Commanders?"

"You've got no right to ask her, and whatever I said, one way or another, would be giving you information that violates T'Pol's rights to privacy as a Vulcan citizen. So I'm not saying anything, either. Not one word, either way. Not because I'd be guilty, or because I want something else from her. Because one of us really _is_ her friend, Jon, and I don't think it's _you_."

T'Pol stretched up, put her lips to Trip's ear. Their hands were still clasped, Trip sheltering that ring. Jon thought about hot Vulcan breath in his ear, and he wanted it with an intensity that was physically arousing. Damn. If Trip saw that, or T'Pol did -

He went back to his chair, sat down, and dropped his napkin into his lap.

"She says she doesn't want to stay anymore, Jon. That she's lost her appetite, and needs to meditate. And, I'll have you know, she's barely eaten enough to keep Phlox's bat alive these last few weeks, and she _can't_ meditate. You know how hard emotions can be for her; why in _hell_ would you make it worse?"

"That ring – the meld - "

"Are none of your damned business! We're not even on duty: why the hell should her _jewelry_ matter to you, anyway? Unless you're jealous, and you want to try to take advantage of a woman when she's broken open."

His stare was hard, and Jon wanted to look away. But he didn't. Instead, he said, very softly, "Sounds like you've got firsthand experience with that, Commander Tucker."

"Maybe we shouldn't have come back here. I thought this was a _safe_ place; that we could use the time to reorient – this hasn't just been hell for _her_ , you know. We both thought you'd understand, as much as anyone can who hasn't lived through this nightmare of falling in love with that beautiful baby girl, and then having her ripped away, because Paxton wanted a – a- a _pawn_ -" Now it was Trip's voice that broke into a sob.

T'Pol's hand moved, bringing Trip's with it, to hover over the side of his face again. Her voice was so soft Jon had to strain to hear it. "I grieve with you, Trip. Captain, you will allow us our sorrow, and its expression. It is our own, and we claim our privacy in it."

It sounded formal and Vulcan, except that it was shattered by her crying, and Trip's. John felt like an utter ass, the way Trip said he was. It shouldn't matter that they were taking comfort in one another, or even _how._ That her fingers went back to those contact points on Trip's face, and a deep sigh passed through them both, in tandem, saying that there really was solace in it.

It shouldn't matter. But that ring still glittered on the hand that almost caressed on Trip's face, and she was still sitting on his lap. The long sleeves of his robes – which ought to look ridiculous on him, but somehow didn't - encircled and protected her as her head nestled against his chest. His chin came down, his bowed head resting on hers.

"We claim our privacy in it." That sounded like the codicil in T'Pol's commission, and Jon felt a sharp prick of guilt. If he really was their friend, should T'Pol have had to ask him for that?

Not letting himself admit it outright didn't make it any less true that he was letting his own emotions get in the way of protecting T'Pol's, or that Trip, damn him, was right. He wasn't acting like a friend; he was acting like a jilted lover – and he didn't even know for a fact that there was anything going on between them, aside from an impossible situation they both seemed to be trying damned hard to muddle through.

He took a deep breath, testing the next words out in his head before letting them out. Maybe he should stick his tongue in his cheek the way Trip did, but he thought maybe he finally had this right.

"The room is yours, Commanders. I'll have the steward stand by. Please stay. T'Pol, try to eat a little something. You, too, Trip. You tend to get so wrapped up taking care of everyone else, you forget to take care of _you_."

"I will tend him." T'Pol didn't come out of hiding. Her voice was quiet, but as firm as ever, even with the hoarseness of her tears.

"We'll tend each other." Trip was maybe the only person aboard with a chance of out-stubborning the woman on his lap. He met Jon's eyes squarely, his red from crying. "Sorry for runnin' my mouth off, sir."

"You _both_ had every right. I _wa_ s being an ass. I'm done now. I was so busy thinking how this has affected me, I lost sight of what it must be like to be her parents."

"Hurts like hell, Cap'n. But at least I can come out and say so. But for _her_ \- " He shook his head a little. "This is one of those times when not being like us isn't an advantage. I'm just trying to help my baby's mama through this, Jon. Elizabeth was our baby girl – and we _wanted_ her."

" _Want_ her." The whispered words were muffled by cloth and a clogged throat.

"I'm going to do whatever it takes to help T'Pol, Jon. If you can't accept that, we'll turn in our resignations in the morning, because some things are more important than Starfleet. Oh, hell...waterworks again." His head came down to rest on T'Pol's shoulder, so both their faces were hidden, and they looked like a single huddled form.

"I shouldn't have pressured you to come to dinner your first night back. I see now that it was too much, too soon. Take as long as you need; call me if there's anything else I can do – to make it up, or to make this easier for you."

Neither of them answered, and T'Pol had demanded privacy, so, belatedly, Jon went and spoke with the steward. "Get them whatever they want, whenever they're ready, Crewman. And make sure you've got some plomik broth and a steak dinner ready, just in case. Stay here until they eat, or leave."

"Aye sir."

His own appetite for food and company was gone, so Jon just got himself some coffee, then walked back to his own quarters, alone.


	3. Plomik Broth and Chamomile Tea

**Complete Author Notes in Chapter One: "A Backdrop of Stars".**

 **I know it's been a bit since I posted anything to this story. It wasn't intentional. April through July are my creative writing months, with different challenges and projects each month. This month and next, I'm drafting three novels for my Kifo Island series, a near-future fantasy set on a no-cost hospice resort island. As I type this, I'm finishing _A Rising Tide_ (water's getting deep, and lives are in danger!) and planning _The Far Shore._ Once that's underway, I'll start planning _Tsunamis,_ which will hopefully be a completed draft by the end of July.**

 **Of course, Trip and T'Pol don't want to wait that long to get a turn. So, even if I'm not updating quickly at the moment, there will be occasional new chapters for this story, and for _Love and Loss_ , throughout the next two months, as I can write and revise new material.**

 **I'll also be preparing to roll out my first beta'd story...for those of you wondering about my references to Trip and T'Pol's _first_ encounter, at Fusion, "First Contact, With Jazz" will give you the full story...**

 **But that's the future, still...**

 **Right now, we've got another installment in _A Backdrop of Stars_. Trip and T'Pol have returned from extended bereavement leave, but something is different between them. Jon gets jealous, and angry, and then tries to smooth things over by leaving them alone in the Captain's Mess, which is where we are about to go...**

 **This chapter is rated T for brief mentions of sex and mild Trip-language.**

* * *

 _ **As always, I love reader feedback. While it's lovely to read glowing reviews, I learn a lot from the not-so-enthusiastic. So long as you're respectful, please don't hold back on the criticism! =)**_

 _ **Thanks for reading!**_

* * *

 ** _Plomik Broth and Chamomile Tea_**

"You're stalling, pepperpot."

Trip wished he could climb back into her head as easily as he had on Vulcan, and figure out what was going on in there. Maybe, if she'd been willing to ignore Jon for a couple more days, this would all be easier. But T'Pol just couldn't abide things like that hanging over her; she wouldn't rest until they were dealt with.

"I'm not hungry."

Barely a whisper; she hadn't had much to say since Elizabeth died, and almost nothing since they got back here last night. Which made melding, their bond, and Attunement an even bigger deal for her, especially since they'd all but stopped making love. Trip wasn't sure why; she just suddenly didn't seem to need it, and it wasn't something he could ask Koss and Kov about.

Trip brushed his lips over his wife's smooth dark hair yet again, because she always melted a little more into him, and breathed a little easier, when he did that. He'd noticed it when they were on the shuttlepod, bringing Elizabeth home - and before he could snatch that memory back, T'Pol caught it.

She made a strangled little sob, her hand clutching his overrobe tightly. That did Trip in, too, and he hoped that whoever it was who said there was healing in tears knew what the hell they were talking about.

He found the fingers of her other hand in the _ouz'hesta_ – not the passionate form he'd first learned from her, but the one shared by bereaved parents. It wasn't the same, without Attunement, but he could still feel the deep sucking currents and shifting sands of sorrow rolling through her, blending with the swift crashing tides of his.

They rested like that for a while, drawing comfort from their shared anguish. But she was still stalling, and so Trip tried again. "Jon gave us his Mess, pepperpot. and I think it's time we put it to good use. We need to eat."

"I'll sit with you, Trip." Her whisper was getting fainter by the day. She was souldwounded, and he couldn't possibly be as good at helping her as a Vulcan husband would be, by nature. That hurt. All he wanted, besides that sweet baby girl who'd come and gone so fast, was to be everything T'Pol needed, everything she deserved.

What the hell had Jon done to her, barking into the middle of their mindmeld?

"Pepperpot, I can feel your shoulder blades and hipbones. It's not like you were packin' any extra to begin with; you never have -"

"My nutritional requirements -"

"Aren't the same as mine. I know." He shifted her weight, used an _ouz'hesta_ to turn her chin up so they were face to face. He tried not to let her see - or feel - how much her complacency scared him. "But even a tough Vulcan scientist can't live on just air, T'Pol, and we both know it, so what's the logic in arguing?"

She sighed into him, letting him support her. "I can't argue it logically. I'm simply not hungry." Her eyes didn't glance away; she wanted him to understand that this was her truth.

He believed her – but that didn't mean that he was just going to give up. He kissed her gently, tracing her cheekbone, then her collarbone. Not much flesh around either of them. "Hunger's a survival drive, and you're starving. If you don't feel hungry, maybe we'd better go see Phlox about that-"

"Trip." Just the way his mama said it. Had the same power to make him shut up and pay attention, too.

"I'm Vulcan, and I grieve. The intensity will pass in time. I'll likely compensate, when it does. I may eat a great deal, in a short time, when my appetite returns."

"So you want me to believe that this is the way all Vulcan mamas behave when they lose their child?" Maybe it was. Maybe he was worrying for nothing.

"No. I only ask that you believe that this is true for _me_ , now."

He remembered her standing in decon, plowing into her plate of carefully prepared Vulcan delicacies with two bare hands, shoveling it in like she'd never eaten before. Answering echo – the food was the only desired object she could have, a means to quell the burning hunger for a mate – for _him._ It had been a display, of sorts. He'd missed it, then, and Phlox hadn't clued him in. Probably for the best – if he'd known what she needed, he might have thrown caution to the wind and given it to her.

She wasn't human, and she never would be. He didn't _want_ her to be. Maybe he should just relax about her not wanting to eat while the flesh practically melted off her. Maybe he'd need to feed her ten times a day, when she adjusted to all the changes. Except that she seemed to have lost her spark, and her purpose. She was like a piece of driftwood, bobbing along on his tides, without any real will of her own, just that sucking current of grief, and the endless barren sands of despair.

But her eyes were open and welcoming. She knew he was scared. She could probably smell it. "If it will ease your mind, _t'hy'la_ , I will have _plomik_ broth and chamomile tea."

"It's something, anyway. Thank you, pepperpot. I wish I knew more about how to make this better for you. Hate seeing you hurting." He stroked her sunken cheek, and another sigh was his reward.

"I share that sentiment as regards you, _t'hy'la_. Your pain is acute; you, too, are soulwounded." Once, she might not have noticed. But now he felt her mind, trying to soothe his, finding some comfort in the effort. They weren't so different, that way, even if most people didn't see it in her.

"We're in this together, all right. Never knew it could hurt so much to lose a baby we didn't even conceive, and who we knew only three days."

"We might have conceived, Trip. That fact was implicit in the act of mating. Nor is the duration of time we knew Elizabeth relevant to the depth of her loss."

This time, it was her fingers that initiated the _ouz'hesta,_ and that gave Trip the first glimmer of inspiration. He let his wife comfort him for a few minutes, because they both needed it, then stroked her face again, looking deep into her glistening eyes.

"Don't think I don't know you're hoping I'll forget about feeding you before you waste away, Wifey. Now, let me up so I can do my manly duty and hunt us up some grub."

She didn't answer in words, but her wide eyes were eloquent, and she was stuck to him barnacle tight.

"Okay, then – we'll do it together." A shuddering sigh was his reward, and they sorted themselves out enough that they could go together to the galley.

An impossibly young crewwoman stood at the stove, gawping at them. Damn – it was going to be all over the ship that they were hugging up on each other. Maybe it was a good thing T'Pol wasn't feeling amorous anymore, after all. That poor girl might have gotten the peep show of a lifetime.

But the way the girl was staring, he figured she'd seen more than enough to run the gossip mill full tilt. After Elizabeth, they had to be _the_ hot topic. In typical Vulcan fashion, T'Pol seemed more or less oblivious to the ruckus they'd caused. That left him in charge of damage control. He dragged up a battered grin, and aimed it at the girl. Hell, her jumpsuit still had pleats in it, and it was so shiny that it almost hurt his eyes.

"Vulcans don't grieve the way humans do – and they need complete privacy about it, Crewman -?"

"Smith," T'Pol supplied, because the poor girl, who looked like she was all of twenty, hadn't remembered to close her mouth yet. Had she been reviewing the incoming crew roster while he was asleep? That would be like her, even now. "I appreciate your discretion, Miss Smith."

"It's - it's fine, sir, I mean ma'am – I mean - " Now _she_ was the one who looked like she would cry.

"My name's Trip." He gave his wife a chaste little squeeze. "She's T'Pol. We're on leave; you don't need to use titles. We just wanted to grab a bite; Chef always keeps some _plomik_ soup around for T'Pol."

"Captain Archer ordered me to remain at this post, and to get you anything you wanted."

 _Except simple understanding, and backing off when things were none of his business._

 _He may not have those things to give,_ t'hy'la _. At least not in this instance._

Trip wanted to hold a grudge – it was a focus away from the intensity of this hurt – but she had a point. So he focused on the poor hapless girl Jon had left to clean up his mess. "We don't need you to do that. I'm sure you've got better things to do."

"If you don't mind –" she cut herself off to draw a big breath where Starfleet training said she was supposed to use a rank. "Trip, T'Pol – I heard about your baby girl. Please, let me get you something to eat. If you'll excuse my saying so, you both look like you could use someone to take care of you, and the Captain – well, he didn't seem to see it the same way."

Trip didn't know what to say to that, but his wife had Vulcan simplicity on her side. "Thank you," she whispered, and sagged against him. Trip felt her exhaustion. Damn Jon for snapping her out of that meld. Without sex or Attunement, she needed the intimacy and support, and Jon had shredded even that - because of her _ring_?

 _Trip. Be here, now._

 _Oh. Right. Sorry._

Damn. He'd just been standing there like an idiot, talking to his wife in his head, or hers….

 _Trip._

Trip snapped himself out of the loop he was in, casting for something to say the girl. He landed on her name.

"So, Crewman, Smith's a pretty common last name. Do you have a first one?"

"Anita." The girl ducked her head. There was a time T'Pol would have been jealous as hell about him showing even that much interest in another woman. But now that he understood about the bonding, and they'd made it official, she'd finally relaxed.

"Well, Anita, our First Officer here is tuckered out, but you know she can't just come out and say so, on account of her being Vulcan, and purportedly indestructible. Would it be too much to ask you to bring some _plomik_ broth and chamomile tea to her quarters for her?"

"You must eat, too, Trip."

"Yeah, I guess so – tell you the truth, I don't have much of an appetite either, these days. Maybe I should just have what you're having."

 _You need more._

So do you,

 _Mother Hen_ _._

"Should I bring yours to your quarters – Trip?"

"You're welcome to join me." Not so long ago, that line would've been halfway between a proposition and a warning. Now, though -

 _You'd like to have sexual relations.  
_

 _I want to take that pain out of your beautiful eyes. I want to show you just what you mean to me, in every way I can._ _Whether we 'have sexual relations' or not, that's what I want._ _  
_  
"I'm happy to bring enough for two." A pause, but Trip felt something else coming. "I – I saw the video of your baby. She was beautiful." The girl took a deep breath, and said, in a rush - "She looked like you both. I'm so, so, sorry."

"Her name was Elizabeth." T'Pol's voice skipped in the middle of the name, and she began to cry in her silent Vulcan way. Anita didn't stare; she just nodded at Trip and said, "I'll bring your dinner when it's ready."

Anita Smith, nee Paxton, watched them as they turned and walked away, leaning on one another. She shook her head, wondering what they would have thought if they knew that she'd held their baby girl, sung her lullabyes, even tried to rescue her from the mining colony. If only the hybrid child hadn't gotten too sick to take the chance. Her father hadn't found out that she and Susan Khouri were going to smuggle his 'master weapon' away, and alert her genetic parents to her existence and whereabouts. But when Father caught her rocking the feverish little girl and singing to her, he'd sent her from the colony, "for your own good."

Not that Frederick Paxton ever really seemed to care about her own good, or anyone's. He'd created the baby, just so he could kill her. Anita hadn't learned that until it was too late; she'd already loved that baby girl fiercely by then.

She'd wondered about the unknowing parents aboard _Enterprise_ , and how they'd react if they ever learned that the baby girl Anita had secretly called Luna came from their genetic material. She'd imagined disgust, violation, rage -

She hadn't expected them to lean on each other, or to accept the baby as their own child. But everyone here came through the Mess Hall sooner or later, and Anita had listened to many talk about how tragic it was, how they'd risked their lives to bring their daughter out alive, how they'd taken her to T'Pol's quarters as soon as the shuttlepod docked, and never left her side when she got sick that last time, except when the Captain needed them at the peace conference. Chef had burned his hand, and, while in Sickbay, heard Trip tell the baby that they were going because of her, so that babies like her would never again be seen as freaks rather than the beautiful little miracles they were. Chef swore he'd been crying, and that T'Pol had reached up to comfort him.

They accepted the little girl as their own, and they were grieving for her. Just like Anita was.

Yes, this Vulcan mother grieved her child. It would be an honor to bring them a meal, to do anything she could to ease their pain. She wasn't sure telling them her memories of their baby Elizabeth would help, or break open any healing they'd done. That's why she'd signed on – to learn how to help them, and how much to share.

She'd never felt that her own father would grieve her if something happened to her; most of the time, he seemed not even to remember that he _had_ children. And yet he would condemn any alien species, just for not being _human_. He would say they were less than human – but, as Anita thought of the grieving Commanders, and the silent tears streaming silently down a lovely, still Vulcan face, she knew that it was her own father who was lacking in humanity.


End file.
